


We Are Nowhere

by itsjustmeagain7



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective BAU Team (Criminal Minds), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustmeagain7/pseuds/itsjustmeagain7
Summary: When Spencer, JJ, and Emily go missing at the hands of an armed and dangerous sadist, it’s up to the rest of the team to bring the home before it's too late. But will irrevocable damage be done? Will they ever be the same again?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Just Another Case

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I posted this story under the same name on FF.net, but I figured I'd try my hand here, too. I've done some editing since originally posting this, so hopefully it's more polished now. Let me know what you think!  
> Some context: this story takes place somewhere in season 7, meaning Emily is back from Paris and JJ is a full-blown profiler. For some reason, though, I also have her take on a liaison role in this case.

Spencer Reid flew out of his chair as an object skimmed the back of his tangled nest of russet-colored hair. The identity of the chuckling culprit was painfully obvious, and Spencer shot him a pointed eye roll.

  
“So close,” chided the voice of Derek Morgan from across the room, in his syrupy sort of low drawl.

  
“Nice throw, asshat,” Reid retorted, flinging the wad of lined paper back at the gloating agent. It tittered to a halt feet away from where Morgan was reclining in his rolling chair, legs atop the desk like some cavalier frat boy. Reid had to laugh at his own pathetic toss.

  
“Break it up, kids.” A hurricane of blonde hair whizzed past, a mountain of files in hand, grinning at the squabble. _Boys_ , JJ thought. _T_ _hey never really change._

  
“Hate to end this lovefest,” she said, tucking a wily strand of sandy hair behind her ear, “but we’ve got a case.”

* * *

Emily Prentiss popped two extra strength Advils into her mouth as JJ, Reid, and Morgan strolled into the conference room to meet the rest of the team.

  
“Long night last night?” Rossi asked incredulously, raising his eyebrows. Dave curled his hand into the universal bottle signal and raised it to his mouth.

  
“Shut up.” She forced a haughty laugh and gave him a nudge.

  
Sure, maybe she’d had a little too much to drink. But lately, there hadn’t been much of a choice. It had been months since she’d returned from Paris. Months since she’d had to worry about Ian Doyle, who now slept soundly six feet underground. But the nightmares came anyways, and she could swear she sometimes saw his husky frame lurking in her hallways, waiting for the opportunity to end her for good this time. There was no running from the twisted tales her mind was so proficient at spinning, as much as she wished she could. Emily knew if she confided in any of her team members, they’d assure her the reaction was natural after such a traumatic few months. And deep down, she knew they’d be right. Still, for some reason, she just couldn’t find a way to forgive herself for being so damn _scared_ all the time.

  
Emily let loose a weighted sigh and began to massage her temples as JJ took her customary place in front of the screen.

  
“Granville, Ohio. Population 6,000.” JJ gestured to an overhead shot of the small town. “Local authorities have found a total of nine bodies dumped in the same creek in the past three months. They’ve been pretty out in the open, no forensic countermeasures.” Images of waterlogged and mutilated corpses began to litter the screen. Penelope Garcia put down her cat-shaped coffee mug.

  
“That’s my cue to leave,” the shaken blonde said, grimacing. “If you need any technological wizardry, you know who to call.” She exited the room in a flash of color, self-soothingly humming the Ghostbusters theme song.

  
Reid’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, that signature ‘genius-wheels-are-turning’ expression screwing his angular features in a somber frown.

  
“Something you want to share with the group?” Hotch asked, smiling to himself. Reid was a genius—that much was indisputable—but a toddler could read him. Aaron thought that it was wholly entertaining. Spencer wore his emotions on his sleeve without even knowing it.

  
“Nine murders in a small town. This case could’ve been called serial after victim number three. Why weren’t we called in? It doesn't make any logical sense, unless the local PD are uneducated and highly incomptent.”

  
Hotch bit back a chuckle.  
  


“Incomptent, maybe,” JJ said with a snort. “But it could have something to do with the fact that six of the three bodies were found at once. The coroner estimated three of them had been decaying in the water for about a week longer than the others. Our unsub seems to be hunting for trios. Three victims go missing, he keeps them for three days, tortures and kills them, and then dumps the bodies all together.” She gestured towards the nine driver’s licenses photos that were scattered about the TV. JJ couldn’t help but think of her own ID picture, such a simple and irrelevant thing. But in death (or unsolved murder, at least), it became all that was left of you besides an uninhabited and battered body lying somewhere in a dreary medical examiner’s office. Staring into the pixelated eyes of the victims, she couldn’t help but picture her own face plastered to the screen. This was not a new fear for the young profiler, but it was one she never seemed to be able to ditch. And God, it made her feel like shit. She shoved it into the depths of her brain every time it resurfaced, but somehow the grim notion always lingered, taunting her.

  
“Moving on,” JJ said, swallowing hard, “Victimology is all over the place. He takes two women and a man with no known relation to each other. Race and socioeconomic background varied. Vics have been ages 24-42.”

  
“What about the torture?” Morgan asked, fidgeting slightly in his chair.

  
Emily glanced down at her tablet. “Ligature marks were found on arms and legs. Deep bruising all over the bodies. Scattered shallow knife wounds. Taser burns. This guy has a lot of rage.”

  
“Three out of the six women were sexually assaulted, but the DNA that they pulled from the bodies wasn’t in our database,” Rossi added as he swiped through the images.

  
“The ultimate COD was exsanguination due to a stab wound to the abdomen,” Hotch said, his voice tight and professional. There was something about this case he couldn’t put his finger on. Something sinister.

  
Then again, he supposed every case they worked could be classified as sinister.

  
Reid swallowed the urge to spit out every fact he knew about evisceration, instead only chiming in, “Bleeding out from the abdomen can take on average 2-4 hours. It’s a painful death, exacerbated by the previous wounds and malnutrition.”

  
Hotch glanced around the room grimly. “Brief segments of the torture were also live streamed directly to the local sheriff’s office, though the camera quality is poor. It appears to take place in a basement. Our unsub is 6’1, around 200 pounds. He wears a mask on camera. Sorry to spoil your weekend, but we need all hands on deck. Wheels up in 30.”

  
Once their leader had exited, the profilers abruptly changed the conversation from mutilated bodies to personal gossip. It was a rather strange ritual that happened laughably often. After having to discuss the ins and outs of unspeakable horrors, they distracted their cursedly restless minds with casual banter. Each one pretended that the images wouldn’t plague their vision the instant that they closed their eyes.

The jet touched down a few hours later, and the string of yawning agents stumbled across the runway into a set of the usual black SUVs.

  
An exhausted and hapless Reid climbed into the car, exiled to the backseat by Prentiss and Morgan. As it jolted to life, he pressed his forehead against the welcomingly cold window. He found his thoughts wandering to his mother. The doctors at her facility had called him yesterday, mentioning something about attacking a staff member and forced sedation. Reid had tried to block out the words streaming through the other end of the phone, responding only with halfhearted agreement. He thought of his own genetics, the enigmatic and unknowable spirals of DNA that would decide if he would be allowed to grow old with his sanity, or lose it somewhere along the twisting path. To the genius, his brain was his entire value. Without it, he assumed he’d be tossed aside by the Bureau, and even by his friends and team. There was something incredibly haunting about not knowing your own expiration date.

He was pulled out of his reluctant musings when the car jerked to a stop.

  
_Breathe Spencer. Just another case._

~~~~

“SSA Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone.” JJ shook hands with the greying cop and smiled her reserved-for-the-media smile, effervescent and glowing, never failing to charm it’s recipient to pieces.

  
“Detective Whittaker,” came the 50-something man’s reply. He reached up to scratch the top of his balding head, moving so stiffly that it just exuded stress. “Thank you folks for coming down here on such short notice. The whole place is in a damn panic.”

  
“Of course,” came the commanding voice of Aaron Hotchner, approaching with the rest of the team. The detective was almost instantly pulled away by a younger cop, mumbling half-hearted apologies. The tension in the town was intensely palpable—it gave off the dense air of horror, thick and suffocating, like an anvil pressed down from the heavens.  
Hotch knew, better than most, that there wasn’t much time. “JJ, you and Prentiss stay here and interview relatives. We need to know as much as possible about the victims’ routines. Morgan and Rossi head to the dump site. Reid, stay here and do the geographical profile. We’re on a clock people. It won’t be long until he takes three more. We need a profile.” He nodded, signifying his spiel was over. The team split apart without another word, walking in their respective directions with the haste that only imminent murder can muster up.

  
Outside the police station, a crowd of interested citizens had gathered. Among them, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap smiled to himself, imagining an utterly glorious grand finale. This was exactly what he had been waiting for.


	2. Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're drawing closer to the action. Let me know what you think :)

Emily Prentiss gripped the edge of the precinct bathroom’s sink like it was a lifeline. That cold porcelain seemed to be the only thing keeping her tethered down to the present—the icy claws of memory were tugging her backwards with a biting fervor, begging her to slip into the images that lurked only in her nightmares. 

So basically, it was a normal day at the office.

She’d spent the rather unpleasant morning interviewing the victims’ relatives. It was certifiably her least favorite part of the job, only perhaps bested by the likeness of riding passenger side to Derek Morgan during a car chase.

And she was acutely aware— _overly_ aware—that her own team had been those broken relatives not so long ago. The very thought sent lead dripping into her gut.

_Paris, France. 5 months earlier._

_“How are they taking it?” she croaked, still unspeakably sore from the previous week’s surgery. Her friend paused for a weighted moment._

_“Not great,” came JJ’s taut reply. Emily could practically feel her friend’s guilt seep through the burner phone, gnawing at the edges of JJ’s usually bright voice. The gravity of the secret that her and Hotch were being forced to keep from their closest friends was not lost on Emily. She swallowed hard, keeping her voice airy so as not to add on to the blonde’s heaping pile of worries._

_“Any updates on Doyle?”_

_Again, JJ paused. “Nothing yet.”_

_The two friends felt the same deafening silence from thousands of miles away. The same razor-edged helplessness._

_“We’ll get him, Em,” JJ practically whispered._

_“I know you will,” she replied, trying to force the certainty that she couldn’t bring herself to truly feel. Emily then promptly tossed the cell phone into the nearest garbage can before sucking in a fretful breath and heading on her weary way._

_Across the world, JJ did the same._

She placed her hand below her clavicle and began to trace the ridge of the clover-shaped scar with her index finger, viscerally hating that she still hadn’t worked up the nerve to have it removed. Doyle’s emblem of ownership. His calling card. Just the memory of white hot pain and his coarse, wandering hands sent bile nipping at the back of her throat. Emily’s breathing began to quicken. The overbright fluorescence of the bathroom pounded against the backs of her eyes in exact tandem with her panickedly racing heart. She hugged her arms around her chest and stared, wide-eyed, into the mirror at the fragmented woman she’d become. 

The bathroom door swung open.

“Em?” 

Just the sound of the gentle voice was enough to shatter her unglued spirit into a thousand tiny shards of glass. 

JJ pulled her best friend in for an urgent hug, rubbing Emily’s back as she haggardly caught her breath. 

“Shh. I’m here.”

It couldn’t even have been a minute later that the brunette pulled back, looking wildly ashamed to have been caught at such an unguarded moment. Emily tucked away a few delinquent strands of dark hair and bit her lip, looking as if she had something to say. Still, she remained silent as she strolled briskly towards the door, only pausing briefly to offer her friend a curt nod. As quickly as JJ had found her, hunched over and panting, Emily was exiting the bathroom like nothing had happened at all. 

Jennifer Jareau stared at her own shocked reflection for a moment, struggling to digest what she’d seen. Emily Prentiss, the pillar of strength, the poster child of emotional regulation, had just briefly broken down. JJ wanted to scream. Ian Doyle, from the grave, was still wreaking havoc. Part of her almost wished that the son of bitch was still alive, if only so he could rot in a maximum security prison for the rest of his godforsaken life. He’d gotten the easy way out, and left a twisting trail of wrecked souls behind him. 

And that was all it took for her thoughts to spin beyond control, launching her back to that wretched day. Yes, Jennifer Jareau knew all about the wrecked souls that got left behind. Once upon a time, she had been one.

_11 year old JJ wiped the sweat from her brow, grunting as her cleat struck the soccer ball. It slammed mercilessly into the side of her family’s old Victorian, giving a satisfying thump._

_“Thank you, thank you,” she crowed to the imaginary fans that cheered her name, raising her sweaty fists to the sky in celebration._

_Playing alone was getting boring, though. As much as Rosalyn sucked ass at soccer, JJ needed a goalie to work on her shot placement with. Bounding across the porch, she began to bargain._

_“Ros! Hey, Ros! Would you come kick a ball with me?”_

_Receiving no response, JJ sighed, mildly annoyed, and sped through the side door._

_“Please. I’ll clean your room for you. Come on!”_

_Still nothing. Her sister was probably blasting that god awful rock music. JJ jogged through the living room and up the winding staircase._

_“Earth to Ros!”_

_She flung open the door to her sister’s bedroom without knocking. Empty._

_“Rosalyn?”_

_JJ headed down the hallway, towards the closed bathroom door._

_“You in there, Rosalyn?”_

_The young blonde knocked gently. When that didn’t elicit any response, she pounded._

_“Open up, Ros. At least answer me,” she cried, heart jumping into her throat._

_Finally, JJ tried the knob. The door swung open._ _  
__All she saw was red._

_She ran to her sister, who lay motionless in the scarlet-stained bathtub, a rag doll of devastation._

_“Wake up, wake up, wake up,” JJ sobbed, shaking the limp body. In the distance, there was the distinct sound of a car pulling into the driveway, followed by the front door opening. Their parents._

_JJ’s white soccer jersey was soaked in crimson bathwater. Exhausted, she let her little body hit the tiled floor, and began to scream._

It took every ounce of self-control she had not to kick the wall. Instead, JJ squeezed her hands into tight balls and sucked in a breath of cold air. This was not the time to falter. Her team couldn’t afford it. Head down, she exited the grim restroom, leaving as much of the memory behind as she could.

* * *

That night at the hotel, the entire team felt the pressing weight of another tragedy closing in on them. The collective sanity of the small Ohio town seemed to be dangling by a thread, and three more victims would likely cause irreparable damage. The clock crept steadily into the early hours of morning, but the six profilers remained scattered about Hotch and Rossi’s room, triple checking files and praying for an epiphany. 

“Relatives confirmed that each victim was alone at the time of their abduction,” Morgan said languidly, running both hands over his face. “Macy Henderson was walking her dog off a trail by the edge of the woods. Randy Brown was fishing. Lia Johnston and Brett Williams were jogging.” 

Reid swallowed a heavy yawn. “The ME noted that traces of Rohypnol were found in their systems. Scientifically known as Flunitrazepam, the drug is used to treat severe insomnia and assist as an anesthetic in surgical procedures. It's a common date rape drug because of it’s dissolvability in liquid.”

Hotch furrowed his brow. “Were any injection sites found on the bodies?”

Spencer nodded. “Varying spots, though. Sometimes the neck, sometimes the arms.”

“Wait,” JJ said, skimming through a folder whilst simultaneously trying to smooth down a wispy strand of hair, “back to Lia Johnston. The coroner reported that due to the stage of rigor mortis, she’d been killed on day one of the abduction, as opposed to day three. Her body had no visible signs of torture or assault, besides a relatively minor blunt force trauma to the back of the head. They’re still determining COD. But why kill her so quickly? He’s a sadist—that doesn’t fit the profile.”

The room was ghoulishly silent for a moment, each agent’s mind swirling in search of an explanation for this oddity. 

Something on Hotch’s face changed, a blanket of realization softening his tense features.

“He didn’t do it on purpose. She was one of the first three victims, abducted alongside Alice Jones and Nicholas Kaminsky. Someone call Garcia.”

Morgan was already dialing. 

“Hello, my angels. Your fairy godmother is here. What can I do for you?” came Penelope’s silky voice from the phone, still peppy as ever at 2 o’clock in the morning.

“Garcia, I need the heights and weights of the three original victims,” Hotch called from across the room.

“Your wish is my command, sir. Jones was 5’8, 150 pounds. Kaminsky was 6’3, 220. And Johnston was 5’0, 100.”

All at once, it seemed, every profiler came to the same conclusion. Six sets of piercing eyes fell in perfect unison with each other, a shared understanding that only such tight-knit groups of people as this one possess.

“Thanks baby girl. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Morgan said with a small smile.

“Get some sleep lovelies. And be safe. Garcia out.” 

The dial tone rang, but the team didn’t break their intense gazes.

“He unintentionally overdosed her…” Emily said softly. “She was the smallest, and he gave her the same amount as the others. He must’ve still been experimenting with his methods.”

Vague pieces of the gnarled puzzle began to fall into place. The remainder of the hour was spent deducing that their unsub probably didn’t have greater than a high school education, and despite his prowess with live-streaming, was probably withdrawn enough from society to limit his technological use. He had definitely bought the drugs off the street, and either attacked victims from behind, or had some sort of alternate injection method. The dark conversation drew to a giggling close after they realized that Rossi had fallen asleep in the armchair. The others made their usual quips about his age, but were unable to deny their own overwhelming drowsiness. The agents stumbled back to their rooms in pairs, finally surrendering to sleep.

The fact that they were expecting it didn’t annul anyone’s frustrations. The call came to the sheriff’s office just five hours later, casting yet another thick web over Granville. A fourteen year old girl, Allison Roberts, hadn’t returned home from walking her dog early that morning. 

Reid could barely hear himself think over the bustle of the station. In one corner he saw JJ, attempting to console a sobbing mother. In another, Hotch and Prentiss were lecturing cops on handling abduction sites. Rossi and Morgan were in the back, gearing up to leave.

His brain spun, as per usual, like an adderall-riddled hamster on a wheel. Spencer couldn’t help but wonder why this scumbag had chosen a child, instead of his usual age range. The only thing he gained from taking a kid was-

Yes. Attention. 

Their unsub had to know the feds were here. The girl was a means to an end, a physical reminder to the FBI that they were no match for him. That he could do whatever the hell he so pleased.

* * *

Miles away, in a rickety house deep in the forest, a man jovially poured himself a mug of coffee, humming an indiscernible tune as he listened to the muffled shrieks of his newest prey. He would have his perfect three soon—all he had to do now was draw them out. The child was the key. 

He strolled to the ajar basement door and strutted down the stairs. The gag in the girl’s mouth prevented her from forming coherent words, but that sure as hell didn't stop her from trying. Slowly, he uncuffed her from the wall and pulled a syringe out of his back pocket. She thrashed and groaned while he jabbed it, without hesitation, into her thigh.

“Bitch,” he muttered as her body went limp. The man then flung her over his shoulders with practiced ease, ascending the stairs and exiting the house like he’d done so many times before. He whistled that same unintelligible tune as he hiked through the trees, back towards the woodsy trail. It wouldn’t be long until they found her. He dropped the girl beside the path and sunk back into the woods, grinning like a madman.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Here we go!

Aaron Hotchner was irritated. It wasn’t often that a case tugged at his conscience like this one. He prided his team on their collective ability to chisel away answers from the framework of even the most convoluted crimes, the cases that seemed so entangled in absurdity that logic was barely a factor. Somehow, his motley crew of seven usually managed to harness the threads of nonsense and weave them into something tangible. 

But this case... even the facts seemed rooted in ambiguity.

They had no suspects. No real leads. A profile that was flimsy at best;  _ white male in his thirties, psychopathic and intensely deluded but still organized. _ Hotch loathed the gnawing uncertainty. He’d never admit it, but this grim vagueness —the lack of a foreseeable endgame—frightened him. 

Detective Whittaker tersely interrupted his ruminations.

“The skinny kid said that the guy that we’re looking for lives in a secluded area. That true?” he rasped, voice dripping with stale cigarettes. The circles that hollowed out the man’s under-eyes spoke of very few hours of sleep.

“The skinny kid is usually right,” came the unit chief’s distant reply. 

“This town is  _ surrounded _ by woods. There are hundreds of houses tucked away in those trees. It’d take weeks to canvas the whole area, and from what you’re telling me, Allison Roberts doesn’t have weeks. The hell am I supposed to do here, Hotchner?” 

Hotch was accustomed to overwhelmed and overworked police chiefs and detectives. If he knew one thing to be true about cops, it was that they never balked at an opportunity to to jump the gun. He turned on the heels of his polished dress shoes and looked the pudgy, disheveled officer up and down before settling his gaze back at the map on the whiteboard. He gestured towards the large area that had been marked off as forest. 

“Go ahead. Go storming in there, go knock on every door. Be my guest. But let me tell you exactly what’ll happen when you do. You’ll come face to face with a nice man in an old house who will answer every question you ask by the book. You won’t suspect a damn thing. Then, the very  _ second _ that you leave, that little girl in the basement has no shot.  _ None.  _ Let my agents do their jobs. We’re all trying to avoid another body bag here.” Hotch’s calculated monotone was enough to leave the detective staring at the floor like a scolded child. Adjusting his maroon tie once, Aaron turned back towards the bustling precinct and picked up his phone.

“Garcia? Tell the team I need them at the station.”

* * *

He felt the cell phone vibrate in his back pocket, but made no move to reach for it. Pacing about the handicapped stall, Reid cursed himself for being so stupid. A cold sweat began to pin the fabric of his blue button-up to the damp skin on his back. 

_ 4 Months Earlier _

_ He knocked on her door, shaking like a leaf. Or probably, he mused, a leaf that was hopped-up on espresso. Reid’s thoughts oscillated between the terrifying highs and lows of both guilt and longing. The satchel hung off his shoulder like a calling card.  _

_ A yawning JJ pulled open the door, dressed in an oversized Led Zeppelin tee-shirt and black sweatpants. Concern pulled the corners of her mouth downwards as she watched her friend’s eyes dart every which way, as though seeking out one particular firefly. _

_ “Spence?” _

_ He seemed as if he was about to speak, but abruptly clamped his mouth shut before any noise could escape. It was then that she noticed his fervent trembling. _

_ “Hey,” she said, gentle but alarmed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s one in the morning. What’s going on?” _

_ His eyes were wide. “I just...I dunno…” _

_ “Spencer. Hey. Look at me,” she said firmly, struggling to reach him. It didn’t take a profiler to discern reasons for why his words were slurred, blending together at the edges. He had an anesthetic like smell to his breath.  _

Vodka,  _ JJ thought.  _ Definitely vodka.

_ Spencer could swear he heard the three small vials jingling in the pocket of his bag. They seemed to call to him, embroiling every logical thought with the promise of blind, numbing narcosis. A few medically packaged needles lay tauntingly in a separate pocket. He had purchased everything that night on the stumble back from the gritty, cheap-o bar. Reid wasn’t usually a big drinker, but ever since Doyle… all he knew was that his mind was far easier to manage on the fuzzy leash of inebriation.  _

_ The dealer on the corner stood at his usual post, swaying to and fro, faintly humming Bob Dylan. Spencer had let his drunkenness take control, asking without even really meaning to. _

_ “You have Dilaudid?” came his quiet croak. _

_ “Speak up, kid.”  _

_ He cleared his throat and tried again. “Dilaudid.”  _

_  
__And now, just half an hour later, he stood, rigid and clammy, in front of one of his closest friends. The three tantalizing vials of his personal kryptonite were just a reach away, but somehow, he hadn’t taken any. Not yet._

_ It was just too much, losing Emily. The knowledge that he’d failed her lived in him like a parasite, squirming and writhing amidst his already teeming thoughts. Not for the first time, Spencer longed to turn off his mind. To forget it all, the facts and the guilt, the shame and the memories. Just for a little while. But some spirit deep in his subconscious had led him to drive to JJ’s house instead of his own.  _

_ “Spence. Talk to me. Please.” _

_ He saw the fear in her eyes, and suddenly remembered he’d yet to say anything. _

_ “Emily,” he whispered, voice catching. It seemed to be the only word that would come out. JJ just nodded. A look of deep guilt briefly flitted across her face. _

_ He’d slept on her couch for the next couple of weeks and slowly pieced his fragile psyche back together. And yet, he’d never worked up the nerve to throw out the three vials. Spencer tried to convince himself that he’d forgotten about them. It didn’t work. _

This case was weighing heavily, like stodgy cement, on his mind. A voice in his head whispered that he’d be sharper, more on point if he’d just take  _ one _ hit. Feed the fire. 

He knew it was a lie, and still, he thought about it. He thought about it more than he cared to admit.

Reid suddenly remembered the buzz of his phone. A text from Garcia, the words followed by a rather befuddling string of emojis (Reid struggled to delineate the actual species of the cartoon animal that was staring up at him with heart eyes.)

_ Hotch needs you in the conference room ASAP! _

He stuffed the Dilaudid back into its sanctioned pocket and willed his cagey heart to slow down.

* * *

“JJ, Morgan, Prentiss, Reid, go back to the dump site. I want to know more about the surrounding area and how the unsub would’ve navigated it.”

The unit chief pointed to a spot on the map.

“There are a few muddy roads snaking around the creek where the bodies have been found. We need a lead.”

The other agents in the conference room murmured in sleep-deprived agreement. 

“Rossi and I are going to the pharmacy,” Hotch continued, surveying his weary team with equally weary eyes. “Identifying the Rohypnol suppliers of the area is a top priority. Whittaker says there are plenty, most of them illegal.”

“Ohio’s been particularly affected by the opioid epidemic, with deaths by overdose at approximately 5,000 last year,” Reid noted in a mumble, squirming slightly. 

“It’s a small town. If we find the dealer, we can trace him back to our unsub. Be quick and be careful. I don’t have to remind you of the stakes.” His already solemn tone darkened even further at the last sentence, as if the words themselves held immense weight. And it was true —no one needed a refresher on the various slants of misery that Allison Roberts was likely experiencing at that very moment. The images, in the mental shape of crime scene photos, were burned into their consciences whether they liked it or not. Visions of each corpse, swollen by the water they rested in and unspeakably abused, lived unceasingly in the thoughts of every agent. That was how they kept going—they swallowed the horror, but refused to forget it. Because the  _ second  _ that they started forgetting the monstrosities that filled their casefiles was the very same second that the inflictors of said monstrosities won. And that apathy, above all else, was enough to ruin the greatest of agents.

* * *

The SUV pulled over at the head of the trail, just as the sky was beginning to slip into the dusty rose and flaming amber of early evening. Two police cars moseyed up behind it. Precautionary, Hotch had told them. In case anything went awry. The foursome stepped out of the car and took a moment to gaze in wonder at the expansive sea of trees ahead. It was a scenic — though also quite eerie —reminder of how small humans actually were. Insubstantial beasts, really. Even when compared to thoughtless things like these oaks.

“If we’re not back in an hour,” Emily deadpanned, nodding towards the cop smoking a cigarette out the squad car window, “then we’ve been abducted by aliens . Hotch will have a coronary.”

Emily Prentiss would come to look back on that comment with utter contempt, given the events that followed.

The four agents trudged up the woodland path that eventually led them into deep, thick wilderness. Morgan began to bitch when the service on his GPS app cut out.

“Try making a compass out of sticks,” JJ said with a sly smile. “Or find the North Star and ask it to grant you three wishes, or something.”

Spencer snorted. Morgan flicked her shoulder, an art that he was unspeakably skilled at, much to the chagrin of the entire team. Only minutes later, now practically buried in the dense forest, they reached the ill-famed creek.

Morgan took the lead. “Jayje, you and I can go left. We’ll call out for you two if we find anything,” he said, nodding at Prentiss and Reid. Everyone conceded with curt nods. Just the sight of the creek was enough to put a damper on the collective mood. There was no room for friendly banter when you were standing by such a hallowed place.

Derek, for all of his suavity, couldn’t shake the hypervigilance he felt as they all took a moment to exchange glances before splitting up into pairs. There was a deep sense of unease sitting deep in his gut, like an oversweet mound of fudge. Later, he would realize where it stemmed from. He came to understand that subconsciously, he knew he was being watched.

* * *

  
“You know, I probably didn’t wear the right shoes for this occasion,” Emily groaned, attempting to shake mud off her black wedge boots. They’d been walking along the bank of the creek for only about five minutes, but the grime below was very apparent. Emily’s speed was also notably slow—heels and uneven terrain were a deadly combination.

“It’s a broken ankle waiting to happen. I still think you should just go barefoot,” Reid said, grinning as he sloshed through the marshy terrain.

She shot him a smile. “I’d rather die.”

And that was all it took. The air between them became thick with silence. What was intended as an offhand joke between two longtime friends instead spurred an awkwardness only found among strangers. Both of their faces, in almost comical unison, fell. 

“Spencer, I-” Emily started.

“It’s okay. Seriously,” he said, putting on a weak smile. “But you better not die again. I’ll kill you.”

She laughed a real, vibrant laugh. It was immensely joyful, this snippet of normalcy. Her “death” (and subsequent return) had been the hardest on Reid. They didn’t speak of it often. 

A high-pitched yell tore through the pleasantness. Locking eyes only briefly, they both turned around and began to run. 

* * *

Derek and JJ had seen the body at the same time, and both had made a mad dash for the girl’s side. She was curled-up on the river’s edge, and some of her perfectly straight dark hair nipped at the brink of the water. She was, at the very least, unconscious; her head was lolled to the side like a broken doll, and her mouth hung open just a bit. Now came the dreaded question —was she really  _ just  _ unconscious?

They both fell to their knees beside her. She was dressed in loose sweatpants and a red hoodie —JJ recognized the outfit from the description her mother gave, though granted, now the clothes were stained with dirt, and dried blood, and god knows what else. Derek pressed two fingers to the girl’s neck. He looked up at his teammate, and the relief was so evident that even his eyes seemed to sigh.

“She’s alive.”

A shocked JJ fumbled in her back pocket for her cell phone and stumbled to her feet, turning away just for a second. Right as she was about to dial, though, there was a distinct and horrible thump. She, unfortunately, knew that sound very well — a body hitting the ground. JJ whipped her head around.

“Morgan!” she screamed, dropping to her knees once again and beginning to shake the form of her friend that was presently draped across the riverbank. For a horrible second, she was sure he’d been shot. But by some miracle, there was no blood. None at all. She shook him again, still yelling for Prentiss and Reid, and her hands brushed over something hard and metallic on his arm. She grabbed for it. What her hand came away with was bizarre; a dart-like object had burrowed itself in his deltoid.

_ What the hell? _

There was a pointed jostling from one of the surrounding trees. Too pointed. She darted to her feet, gripping her gun with white knuckles, swiveling every now and then.  _ Come on, JJ. Find this motherfucker. _

But before she could even begin to scan the treeline, a fiery stinging erupted in the back of her calf. Her head almost instantly got heavy and clouded, and the forest before her became near kaleidoscopic. Quickly, too quickly, her eyelids dipped, and everything went dark.

* * *

Even in those heinous boots, it was Emily who reached them first. Just the sight seemed to snag her breath in panic: JJ lay slackly on her back at the very edge of the creek, blonde hair splayed about the moss and leaves like a sick sort of halo. Derek was face down in the dirt. The man who was usually so physically powerful seemed small, almost ineffectual. Their two bodies shocked her so much that she almost didn’t register the smaller, female form sprawled next to Morgan. 

“They’re breathing,” she called to a panting Reid, who’d just reached the dismal display, “but out cold. I think that’s Allison. God! Where  _ is _ this bastard?” 

The two brunettes stood back to back, staring at the woods around them with their guns drawn, wondering where the hell this mystery assailant had come from, and how he’d gotten away so fast. 

The crack of a branch breaking on Reid’s side sent the duo sprinting into the trees. 

* * *

He smiled as he watched them approach. A nicotine-stained, foul smile.  
From his position about ten feet up in the towering oak, he watched the dark-eyed woman stop just below him and swing her gun from side to side. He almost laughed—if only she knew how close he really was. With one glorious twang of his dart gun, the woman fell to the forest floor. Predictably, the man rushed to her. The next dart nestled itself comfortably into the back of his neck.

He felt giddy — he’d found four. He could take his pick.

The man chuckled as he climbed down the tree, looking towards where he’d parked his truck, right off the shoulder of the muddy, reticent road. It should be easy enough to load his prey, he surmised. And it was. A mere ten minutes later, the navy pickup pulled away along the trail with three unconscious agents tumbling around in the back like logs. 

In the front seat, he smiled again and began to hum an old nursery rhyme. Everything had turned out perfectly.

  
  



End file.
